


Ask yourself, will I burn in Hell?

by moonflowers



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles is awkward, Erik is a stripper, M/M, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Charles' birthday, and to show him how much she loves him, Raven sends him to a strip club. And guess who happens to be on the pole?</p>
<p>Hint: It's Erik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask yourself, will I burn in Hell?

**Author's Note:**

> Short thing is short, but I had to get this idea out of my head.  
> Erik is dancing to 'Burn the Witch' by Queens of the Stone Age, because anyone pole dancing to this song would be fucking sexy. I strongly suggest you go listen before/during the reading part: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7c187E5BxY

It was Charles’ thirtieth birthday, and he had no problem with this whatsoever. What he did have a problem with was being bundled into a taxi by his supposed friends without being told where they were sending him.  
It turned out they were sending him to a strip joint.

\-----

Charles couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as a man escorted him to his booth. A booth right in front and centre of the stage. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Yeah sure, he enjoyed a good strip show as much as the next guy, but he was alone in a private booth in an unfamiliar club that Raven had booked on his behalf, and that was just a little unsettling. Also, since his friends hadn’t warned him where he was going, he was still wearing his old thick-knit jumper with a hole in the sleeve. Classy. A waiter materialised from nowhere and presented him with some hideously sweet looking cocktail complete with cherry and umbrella before slinking back to the sidelines. Another addition of Raven’s, no doubt. She knew he liked cocktails, but refused to drink them on principle. 

The main lights shut off and the murmuring chatter died instantly, all eyes swivelling to the darkened stage. Waiters drifted off to the sides of the room, standing patiently next to the almost non-existent glow of the deep red wall lamps left burning. Eyes adjusting, Charles could just make out dark shapes shifting on the stage. Each man took his place by a pole; one on the left, one right, and one in the centre at the end of a short catwalk, feet from where Charles was sitting. He was suddenly very aware of the hole in his jumper and the sugary residue on his lip from his drink.  
There was an eerie moment of silence, a thick darkness, the calm before the storm. The first harsh guitar chords thrummed through the room, matched in time with pulses of white light, illuminating the still bodies of the men on stage for brief, tantalising moments. A cheek bone. A shoulder. A chest. 

The chords were joined by a deep bass melody, and now some of the lights stayed up, casting shadows over the dancers’ hard bodies as they began to move. They started slow, making the audience wait, anticipate, as any good performer should, slow grinds and rolling of hips against the pole. 

Charles let his eyes wander over all three, the time for bashfulness long gone. If he was here, he may as well enjoy himself, as Raven had shouted to him as the taxi pulled away. And if he was totally honest, he wanted to look. The man on the right was thick set, muscular under his tanned skin, impeccable facial hair and a leather cap keeping his eyes in darkness. As he turned, Charles noticed his leather chaps were ass-less.  
The man to the left wore little more than black leather shorts – the kind men bought each other as a joke at stag parties. But on this perfectly smooth and supple young man, they were anything but funny. His thick, dark hair, almost to his shoulders, looked the perfect thing to hold onto, as Charles was certain he’d be imagining later when he took a shower. That is, until he turned his attention to the man dancing at the centre pole.  
He was taller than the other two, and lean, almost wiry. He wore the most sinfully tight leather trousers Charles had ever seen, and black boots up to his knees. At his wrists, two leather straps, each with a small metal loop, matching the thick black collar at his neck. He wore a cap similar to the man on the right, military in style, black, with a peak that kept his eyes hidden under its shadow.

The lyrics kicked in, and they danced faster, hooking their arms and legs around the poles in ways Charles couldn’t begin to fathom. His gaze kept making its way back to the man in the centre, whose grip on the pole was so sure and slick it was like he was magnetic.

_...The first to speak_  
 _Is the first to lie..._

Charles watched as the dancer rolled his hips into the pole, stretching his upper body back and away, marvelling at the tight muscle along his torso and his taught arms where he held himself in position. How he’d love to run his hands over that chest, feel each pull and stretch as he moved, run his fingers down his sides and dip in at his waist, linger on his hipbones where he’d bend down to run his tongue along where they jutted sharp from him.

_...Ask yourself_  
 _Will I burn in Hell..._

The anonymous dancer gripped the pole hard and lifted himself from the ground, swinging himself around with a smoothness Charles would have thought impossible. As he turned, Charles ran his eyes over his back and taught shoulders, following the curve down to the waistband of his trousers and further still, over the curve of his arse and his thighs and dear Lord Charles would just love to peel those infuriatingly tight trousers from the man, inch by inch, exposing more skin as he went, taking an agonisingly long time just for payback for the torture of watching him now and not being able to do anything about it.

_...Fan the flames_  
 _With a little lie..._

He was staring at the man’s hands. Of all the places he could be staring at that point in time, he wasn’t sure how he ended up on his hands, but oh, the things he’d let them do to him. His fingers were long and thin, like the rest of him, and Charles willing to bet he was clever with them. A man with clever hands was high up on his list of partner plus points. He imagined the clink as the metal rings on his wristbands tapped the pole. He’d love dearly to clip those wrists together, preferably to his head board, and hold him down to bite his shoulder. 

_...Bite your tongue_  
 _Swear to keep your mouth shut..._

He swung down from the pole into a crouch close to the floor, all straight lines and supple movement. What Charles wouldn’t give to see the man wield a riding crop, because fuck would that complete the pretty picture. He snapped up again quickly, like the thick slap of leather on skin. He briefly wondered if it was strange that he was fantasising about being dominated by a total stranger, before remembering he was in a strip club and that was the entire point. Stranger or not, he’d willingly offer that man his body and the rope to tie it up with.

_...Make up something_   
_Make up something good..._

And he was moving too fast, twisting about the pole, shifting between sharp angles and fluid curves, and Charles was desperate to find a leash for that collar just to keep the bastard still, tie him down and look him over properly. Every inch of him: grab at the hair at his nape, the dip of his collar bone where even now he could see a shimmer of sweat under the stage lights. Run his fingers lightly over his nipples, watching his face for a reaction, trace his hard stomach and dip his fingers into his waistband. Feel the swell of his cock through his trousers, against his palm, cheek, lips. 

_...Holding hands_  
 _Skipping like a stone..._

He could swear the bastard sent a little smirk his way before flinging himself at the pole again, hooking his leg around it to pull himself upside down, stretching out his glorious body like a cat. Charles’ focus drifted down the man’s body, lingering on his thighs, the vague outline of his cock through his trousers, his chest and taught neck, to his face where that infuriating little grin was quirked in his direction. Charles wanted nothing more than to throw that hat off (how it had stayed on while he was upside down was a mystery) and look into his goddamn eyes.

_...Burn the witch_  
 _Burn to ash and bone..._

The last chords sounded, and in that final pulse of light, Charles was sure the man tilted his head back, so the light just caught his eyes, looking right at him. Then the stage was black, and Charles was left wondering how the fuck he was going to leave the club without everyone getting an eyeful of his extremely excited cock through his trousers.  
He sat in his booth, disorientated and aroused, not sure if he wanted to hug Raven or throw her out the window. Either way, he’d still have to wait for his hard-on to abate.


End file.
